


Attire

by breathedout



Series: Passchendaele ficlets [5]
Category: Original Work
Genre: (for reals this time), Also some good old-fashioned, Existential Fear, F/F, Gender Play, Infidelity, Loneliness, O Canada, Performative Self-Presentation, World War I, role play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-10-21 05:09:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17636534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathedout/pseuds/breathedout
Summary: New Glasgow, Nova Scotia: November, 1915"If you need a man of the house: voilà."





	Attire

**Author's Note:**

> The folks over at [femslashficlets](https://femslashficlets.dreamwidth.org/) on Dreamwidth are hosting a year-long, 15-ficlet challenge where all the prompts are Janelle Monáe lyrics. I'm using them to create a little cycle of exercises using characters from the three established or hinted-at f/f pairings in the original novel I'm working on. So all of these tiny character studies will be related to one another, and all except three of them will be either Louise/Hazel, Rebecca/Katherine, or Emma/Maisie. Anyone interested in getting to know my characters a little bit as I flesh them out is welcome to follow along!
> 
> This story was written for the prompt "So dress me up, I'll like it better if we both pretend," which, JUST BY THE BY, is a prompt on which I could happily write thousands of words for any pairing I've ever loved or ever will love, now and forever, amen.

" _Goodness_ , I—certainly not!" Maisie said. She squirmed in front of Emma's mirror. Inspected with distaste the pocket on Paulie's overall. "This is—! I look like a house-painter."

"Because there is painting," said Emma, "that you need to do, in your house. The goal of the exercise is hardly to look like a fashion plate."

It'd been a mistake to come, probably. All that way on the train, and now—but Maisie'd had a letter from Rowland and it'd said nothing at all about anything in Halifax, not the house, nor the dinner she had written she was organising to aid the war effort; and, as she'd told Emma—after recovering from finding her still in flannel lounging pyjamas at an hour that was practically the middle of the day—Maisie hadn't expected he would ask after the girls, she really hadn't; but Georgie was getting to be quite the little gentleman and, oh, if only he were a bit older! Then he could truly be the man of the house; and what with the chandelier in the dining room, and the paint in the entryway, and—at which point Emma, with something like a bellow, had clamped her hand around Maisie's wrist, and dragged her upstairs. Maisie and her brother were much the same build, it seemed; though with a few key differences. 

"This preoccupation," Emma said now, adjusting the straps so that the buckles would fasten over Maisie's bosom. "This obsession with needing Rowland present in order to—paint a baseboard, or order in a plumber. You're _formidably_ capable when you stop wailing for a moment. If you need a man of the house: voilà."

"But I _couldn't_ ," Maisie said. She plucked at the buttons over her hips.

"What? Not convincing?" 

"I wouldn't know what to _do_ with myself. I'm all lumps. What if someone saw?"

Maisie was watching the mirror so she caught the reflection of Emma's—change: her legs hips shoulders loosening into—suppleness, somehow. Maisie saw her move but she still started when Emma curled against her side, little shoulders pressing up under Maisie's arm. 

"Only fancy," Emma said, looking up at her, their hips pressed flush, "encountering such a big," breathy, "strong," and Maisie—" _strapping_ young lad," Emma's fingers toying with the buttons of Paulie's work shirt stretched over Maisie's chest which was flushing, her neck flushing, "just as I was saying to myself, gracious," knuckles brushing Maisie's—nape—"who _ever_ will stoke the downstairs fire?" and Maisie, taken unawares, opened her mouth to a spasm of schoolgirl laughter, spilling out, uncontrollable. 

"No?" said Emma, in her customary voice. "Not even with a woman next to you?" 

Maisie cleared her throat. She hated not knowing where to look.

"I've certainly never seen," she said, "you acting like that with my brother."

Because their reflections were pressed together, she caught the flinch. The flash of something like—like _distress_ , when Emma pulled away—but, Maisie thought, it'd been—

"Emma?" she said. Emma waved a hand. 

"The clothes. They still—and your perfume, sorry, I—"

"I should never," Maisie said, flustered, undoing a buckle. "I'll just—"

"No!" said Emma, voice breaking, and then, stronger: "No, you're—no. Paulie would say. What." Breathing. Steady now. "Oh bother, Emma. Must we go out again tonight? Can't we stay in?" 

Maisie—shifted. Emma's eyes would not leave hers. Her chin was up. Maisie thought: Rowland, after a day at the surgery.

"Come now, Emma," she said, tentative. "The nur—er. Land use council," and Emma hiccuped a laugh, "was beastly. I'm exhausted, I can't possibly—"

"Nonsense. We told the Campbells we'd join them at the vigil." 

"The—vigil."

"For _peace_ ," said Emma, eyes to Heaven, but something in her seemed to—ease, as well. The line of her back: Maisie's heart beat. Closer. Two fingers, run down the length of Emma's spine.

"Darling," she tried. Emma shivered at the touch and it passed all through her, all the _way_ through, shivering into Maisie who was saying, what, she hardly knew: "I'm. Dead on my feet. Can't we—?"

"Certainly not." Emma's voice was stern, but she—she turned toward her. Her arm coming 'round Maisie's waist; Maisie could feel how fast her chest moved. "You'd have me break my word to the Campbells?"

There was wetness still, in Emma's breath. Maisie thought: _she wept_ ; and then: _she never did_ ; and then—held fast by her eyes, dark, _dark_ , depthless soft as when Maisie, on the farm, had put her hand in Papa's huge hand trusting her little weight to him bending over the side of the new-drilled well looking down down down down

—"H- _hang_ the Campbells," she heard herself say; and Emma, under her breath—" _That's it_ —"

 _oh_ and her lips oh soft _slick_ and Maisie falling; dizzy. Clumsy. Pressing herself against her so Emma pressed back, all her springing-loose hair and her slender hands quick on Maisie's—hip and her _wrist_ , vice-held: pressing Maisie's knuckles to Maisie's thigh, squeezing Maisie's fingers together, "Hold—yes?" Emma said; and "I—yes," Maisie, half-fainting, good God the _scent_ of her how she'd said _the clothes, they still_ ; and Emma pushed her pyjamas down and kicked them off and wrapped one leg 'round Maisie's waist and. And Maisie back to the wall hand held steady as wet, wetter, clenched- _hot_ thought _Lord if this is what men have how can they ever leave us_ her twisted-up hand sinking in-into-inside; Emma's hips thrust her deeper. _Deeper_. A hundred feet, he had said. _Fathoms_ — 

"Can I," Emma panted. Staring down into the V of Maisie's shirt-collar, then looking up. Locking their eyes. Her mouth open, whining breath: hand half-on the buckle; half below. 

"I," Maisie said. "Y-yes—but—" 

"For God's sake, Maisie," Emma said, sounding— _furious_ —"Paul never calls me _darling_ "; and then with half a sob thrust one hand under Maisie's shirt and the other hard into Maisie's hair and _moved_ Lord and her hips, Lord and her hips, Lord and her tongue.


End file.
